Free Remembering Brad: On the Loss of a Son to AIDS by Wayne Schow; Brad Schow Page A

be gay. He mentioned his girl friend more than necessary, he brought up the subject of gays as though he wanted to talk about it (this is a funny thing I find myself doing too, bringing up the subject in a casual way but also feeling the atmosphere produced and wanting to just talk with someone about it). Also he was from San Francisco, which is such a haven for gays. That fact doesn’t mean he’s gay, of course, but it enlarges the possibility. And then lastly, there was the way he looked at me.
    There is a look in the eyes of a person who is hungry for the companionship of another person. It is a searching look, a pained look, and desire is there. It is like an animal on the prowl. It is a look that rests on the other’s face and speaks a thousand words without uttering a one. It is a look that lingers just a split second too long, almost a caress, a look of pleading, a crying out for love. I know this look well, for it reaches out from my own eyes. Sometimes the eyes of two such individuals meet and lock momentarily and exchange their secret knowledge. But only if the look is mirrored in the eyes of the other. Then comes the test to see who, if either, will be strong and unafraid enough to acknowledge what he has just revealed of himself and learned of the other. I have yet to be in this position where it was acknowledged by either party. But Alan looked at me in that way, that split second too long that tells all. And I looked at him. He was good looking, but he was also intelligent and I craved that too. This look occurred not once only but many times during the meal. That’s one reason I say it doesn’t happen accidentally.
    I couldn’t have hopped into bed with him, even though I might have wanted to. I don’t believe in that, but still—and even if he wasn’t gay—he symbolized my imaginary lover. Sometimes I wonder if that lover isn’t only myself.
    But as we left and said goodbye, I felt bad for him, that he would be alone for the evening in some boring hotel room. We had invited him to come with us to the lecture we were going to attend at the university, but he declined, saying he had to study some of his work plans. Did he? But it was sad for us to see him get into his rented car and drive away without a friend. It hurts me too, the gay aspect aside, to know that I will never see him again. He was just a nice guy all around. Perhaps we could have been good friends.
    DECEMBER 20, 1978: I’m in love with an angel. She is one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen. She’s only a junior in high school. Talk about robbing the cradle. She’s a sister of one of Roger’s friends. Her name is Trina Marsh, and she is sexy! I’m OK when I’m not around her, but I can’t believe how she makes me feel when I see her. I always thought this melting business was bunk, but I’m proof it isn’t. I feel weak at the knees, my heart pounds, and my eyes feel as if they will pop out. We went out once a couple of months ago on a blind date. It was fun, but I didn’t really pay much attention at the time because I thought she was too young, probably dumb and high schooly, etc. Sure she was good looking, but so what. Now for the past month or so I’ve been reevaluating. Now I think maybe she’s not too young, not dumb, and from what I hear, not high schooly. Anyway, I saw her at the high school choir concert Monday evening, and after much deliberation asked her to go out next week. This time you can bet I’ll be paying attention.
    * * *
    [After transferring to the University of Utah]
    JANUARY 6, 1979: Update: subject—sex, what else. I don’t understand. I don’t understand! What am I going to do about my attraction to guys? (Here comes that sick feeling again.) I like them. I can’t help it. Why is it this way? I find myself attracted to women/girls only in a distant detached way. I notice their beauty and sexuality, admire and am pleased by it, but without any gut attraction. Only very seldom does that